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By the heroes' armed shades,
Glitt'ring thro' the gloomy glades;
By the youths that dy'd for love,

Wand'ring in the myrtle grove ;--

80

Restore, restore Eurydice to life:

Oh, take the husband, or return the wife!

He sung, and Hell consented

To hear the poet's pray'r;

85

Stern Proserpine relented,

And gave him back the fair.

Thus song could prevail

O'er death and o'er hell,

A conquest how hard and how glorious!
Tho' Fate had fast bound her,

With Styx nine times round her,

Yet music and love were victorious.

VI.

But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes;
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!
How wilt thou now the Fatal Sisters move?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.
Now under hanging mountains,

Beside the falls of fountains,

Or where Hebrus wanders,

Rolling in meanders,

All alone,

Unheard, unknown,

He makes his moan;

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And calls her ghost,

For ever, ever, ever lost!

105

Despairing, confounded,

Now with Furies surrounded,

He trembles, he glows,

Amidst Rhodope's snows:

See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies;

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Hark! Hamus resounds with the Bacchanals' cries--

Ah see, he dies!

Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he sung,

Eurydice still trembled on his tongue;

Eurydice the woods,

Eurydice the floods,

Euoydice the rocks and hollow mountains, rung.

'VII.

Music the fiercest grief can charm,

And Fate's severest rage disarm:

Music can soften pain to ease,

And make despair and madness please ;

Our joys below it can improve,

And antedate the bliss above.

This the divine Cecilia found,

And to her Maker's praise confin'd the sound.
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,
Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear;
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire,
And angels lean from heav'n to hear.

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Volume III,

130

P.

134

Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell;
To bright Cecilia greater pow'r is giv'n:
His numbers rais'd a shade from hell,
Her's lifts the soul to heav'n

ODE ON SOLITUDE.

Written when the Author was about Twelve Years old.

HAPPY the man whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire,

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.

Bless'd, who can unconcern'dly find

Hours, days, and years, slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

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THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

I.

VITAL spark of heav'nly flame!
Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying;
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature! cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

II.

Hark! they whisper; angels say,

'Sister Spirit, come away.' What is this absorbs me quite!

Steals my senses, shuts my sight,

Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?

Tell me, my Sou!! can this be Death?

III.

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!

O Grave! where is thy victory?

O Death! where is thy sting?

5

10

18

THE SATIRES

OF

DR. JOHN DONNE,

DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S, VERSIFIED.

Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legences
Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negarit
Versiculos natura magis facto, et euntes

Mcelius?

SATIRE II.

YES, thank my stars! as early as I knew
This Town, I had the sense to hate it too;
Yet here, as ev'n in hell, there must be still
One giant-vice so excellently ill,

That all beside one pities, not abhors,

As who knows Sappho smiles at other whores.
I grant that poetry's a crying sin;

It brought (no doubt) th' Excise and Army in:

HOR.

SATIRE II.

SIB, tho' (I thank God for it) I do hate

Perfectly all this Town, yet there's one state

In all ill things so excellently best,

That hate towards them breeds pity towards the rest. Tho' poetry, indeed, be such a sin,

As I think, that brings death and Spaniards in;

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